From the Rabbi

The dramatic pro-Palestinian demonstration that took place on Nov. 15 gave witness that Columbia University continues to be a battlefield and a tinderbox of Palestinian Protest, colored by a distortion (intentional or not) of the Palestinian cause.

Since 2008, I have seen the slow progress of Apartheid Week on the Columbia campus, developing from a small booth to an army. Even after two pro-Palestinian organizations —  Students for Justice in Palestine and Jewish Voice for Peace — were suspended from campus because of their violent rhetoric in a demonstration on Monday, Oct. 23, they arranged another demonstration of 200 people outside the gates, carrying signs that said, “By any means necessary.” Following the barbaric events in Israel on Oct. 7, things progressed quickly. My professor, who heads the Institute for Israel Jewish Studies at Columbia, thought we should organize an interfaith event on campus. The matter became more urgent after the Oct. 23 demonstration.

The demonstration prompted a discussion in class. Everyone was shaken. The professor asked me to share with the class my own family history, which I had detailed in my mid-term paper. It centered on my parents’ immigration to Israel in 1951 via Operation Wings of Eagles, and stated the case that virtually half of the Jews in Israel are indigenous to the region. Indeed, 1948 saw thousands of Arabs displaced from Palestine, but thousands of Jews were displaced from surrounding Arab countries as well. None of the students knew that. My subsequent conversations with our own congregants, community residents (including members of GEM, our local ecumenical group) again revealed no awareness of the makeup of the Jewish population in Israel.

This past week, I spoke at the Bayit — the oldest Jewish food co-op. The students there were thirsty for a conversation. A couple of them even said they wouldn’t care if Israel lost the land, as long as they stopped the bombing in Gaza. That many Israeli Jews are indigenous to the land, and that there was always a Jewish presence there, albeit small, was startling to them, yet it resonated. They agreed that we need to think differently, take a new approach.

The essential (and false) argument of anti-Israel rhetoric is that the country was colonized by white Europeans. The essence of all the demonstrations against Israel boils down to this distortion: Jews are white Europeans who colonized the brown indigenous man. Anti-Israel rhetoric found a button that is pushed over and over and over again.

Incorrect. In Europe, Jews were not white enough. In America, Jews gradually became white and assimilated. Moreover, the current American public perception is firmly set that Jews are white. On that basis, Black Lives Matter connects itself to the Palestinian cause, considering Jews white European colonizers.

Since this has become the main argument — that we are all white colonizers — it means that to free Palestine, all measures become acceptable and legitimate. Therefore, we need to create an impactful event with the sole purpose to flip this argument. Considering my personal history, I am in a unique position to state the following premises:

Jews are indigenous to the Middle East and the region. World and regional wars caused a similar number of Jews and Arabs to be displaced in the Middle East in the years surrounding 1948. We are not giving up on interfaith dialogue; on the contrary, we will continue to speak to all who denounce the savagery in the attack on Oct. 7. We continue to believe that the Middle East must focus on religion and interfaith relations to promote a sustainable peace.

The parallel to the challenges of the 1930s is striking. For many years, I sat behind Eli Wiesel in synagogue and joined him in washing the hands of the Kohanim on the High Holidays. We didn’t speak much. We didn’t need to. His message to not remain silent in the face of adversity resonated loudly enough. Even though we seem to be Me’atim mul rabim — a few against the many, let us not despair. We must respond to the time and place in which we find ourselves. This is our moment. We must counter that which is a blood libel and yell this message from every rooftop.

May God bless Israel and keep it, and shine His face upon her, and give her peace.

—Rabbi Gadi Capela

What a difference a Shabbat makes…  It’s been three weeks since Israel was attacked and brought into war once again. We gathered at our shul for a special time of prayers, and another time on Shelter Island with 80 people coming to show support. We said the Blessing for Israel and Mi Sheberach for IDF soldiers.

It was just on Yom Kippur that we prayed together — who will live and who will die — On Yom Kippur, the 50th anniversary of the Yom Kippur War, Jews were battling themselves in the center of Tel Aviv, interrupting the most sacred prayers. Our enemies recognized our vulnerability. Our Teshuvah, Tzdaka, and Tefillah were blemished and did not avert the harsh decree. We read the story of Jonah, how a whole city was saved. Not in our case. My cousin, who is blind, said to me: “Good thing I can’t see, just hearing about it makes me cry.”

While we celebrated the Torah on Simchat Torah, suicide terrorists perpetrated a sadistic civilian massacre. Hate against humanity. In their attempt to dominate and create a culture of submission, they demoted themselves from human to subhuman. Not freedom fighters, but of darkness. As Rabbi Akiva asked, as he was being tortured to death by the Romans, “Zot Torah veZe sechara?” Is this the reward for keeping the Torah?

We don’t know G-d’s calculations, but we do know that G-d destroyed the world with the flood of Noah because of chamas — the Hebrew word in the Parasha of Noah that translates as violence. After the flood, G-d established the Seven Noachite Laws, setting a minimum bar for human conduct on this earth. No matter where the political border lies, we now know the line that separates us: We don’t act like this.

It feels like the prophecy in the Torah of a future circumcision of the heart, as though part of our heart has been cut off. However, the bloody cut will heal into a covenantal scar, which will say: “We are not like them.” These barbaric acts are the difference between us. Then, seeing the two rows of burnt cars on the road to the nature party, where more than 300 people were hunted, reminded me of Brit bein habaitarim — the Covenant between the parts that G-d set before Abraham.

This is a mandatory war. First, because they attacked border cities. Second, because they attacked the weak, as Amalek did when the Israelites had just left Egypt. In the time of King David, they kidnapped the people of Tziklag. King David went into Amalek’s camp and brought back the captives. Thus, the Torah commands us to erase the memory of Amalek, the head of the serpent. In a mandatory war, even a bride amid the wedding ceremony, needs to leave everything and join the military effort.

In Psalm 81, G-d tells us: At war, I test you. The Torah tells us that the bottom line is where we draw the line of ethics, especially at war. To set ethical boundaries so we don’t lose the image of G-d. Our enemy, on the other hand, sent bounty hunters, who received $10,000 per kidnapped head. Rambam says you can’t pay more than a person’s worth, meaning exchange one for one. Otherwise, people would be hunted all day. In the case of Gilad Shalit, the exchange rate was inflated to 1 to 1000.

But Amalek also comes at times of redemption. It wants to cool down our passionate excitement, to distract us. This time the attack was supposed to keep away peace in the Middle East. Every Jew, every human being is at war with this force of Amalek. Each one in his or her own role. I don’t derive any pleasure seeing buildings come down in Gaza or anywhere, and I hope and pray there is another way that God may give our enemies into our hands. Yiten Elohainu et oivenu hakamim aleynu.

The Torah has already won this war. It created a people that hold the torch of Torah to stand against evil darkness. We pray, as Isaiah for the kidnapped, “Yet it is a people plundered and despoiled: All of them are trapped in holes, imprisoned in dungeons. They are given over to plunder, with none to rescue them; to despoilment, with none to say, ‘Give back!’” Like Rachel, our matriarch, whose birthday we just commemorated, who cries for her children when they go into captivity, but is there to welcome them ultimately as they return home

Am Israel Chai,

—Rabbi Gadi Capela

As a traveler, I have crisscrossed America many times — back and forth, up and down. I’ve climbed mountains and descended into valleys and canyons. This year, at 50 years old, my goal was to visit Alaska and Hawaii, the last two of the 50 states. I planned this trip for many months, interviewed friends who lived in the states or had visited there. I read guidebooks, and watched many YouTube videos. The itinerary had to be precise and anticipate issues, like accessibility, geography and availability. Many places are accessible only by boat, others only by air.

Alaska is big, for sure, but also like a small town because it has few roads and no highways. Traveling to a largely uncharted territory like Alaska, with all its complexity, made me pray the prayer of Jacob: “God, if you bring me back whole….”  Negotiating this state is somewhat like a military operation — you must memorize the roadmap so that when you travel by night, you can tell which. mountain to circle and what valley to cross, where and when. You must count steps and remember at any moment the compass points you are following.

But walking on an ancient glacier and drinking the water right from it — who does that?  The taste and purity of untainted water revived my body and soul.  

In Hawaii, you forget for a moment that it’s a tiny island in the middle of a vast ocean, thus 90 percent of native Hawaiian fauna and flora are unique to the state. The mangoes are heavenly. When you taste the real thing, you know it. Of course, Hawaii offers gorgeous weather and beaches, yet it is amazing how different each island is from another. It’s like finding out that dogs from the same litter may look similar, but have totally different personalities.  

I learned on my last day at the Volcano National Park, that all of the islands were “born” at the same spot, where the lava comes through the conduit from the earth. And then they leave their place of birth and shift at the rate that it takes to grow fingernails. As they shift, they also diminish. That is why the largest island is the youngest, still with its volcanic black rock and land mass on top of the volcano.  

Of course, the fires in Maui changed the whole dynamic of my visit. We prayed in Lahaina and volunteered to distribute water to affected residents.  Leading a bar mitzvah there was a pinnacle.   

Alaska and Hawaii are different but share connections. That idea is captured well in the logos of the national airlines — Alaska’s with its rugged man, covered in thick, hunted fur; Hawaii’s with a beautiful woman adorned with a colorful flower nested in her hair. They illustrate cold and the warm, the Arctic and the Tropic, the masculine and the feminine. Curiously, I was warm in Alaska and sometimes cold in Hawaii. In Alaska, I left nothing to chance; in Hawaii, I was spontaneous, going with the spirit.  

Six months earlier, I didn’t know much about Alaska and Hawaii. Planning the trip was a trip itself, a journey of exploration. Most meaningful were the places where I met the local people — a 12-hour ride to the Arctic and back with David; the Frozen Chosen, who taught me that “in the lower 48, man is big, nature is small, but in Alaska, nature is big, man is small”;  meeting Fr. Ben, who walked with me in Anchorage on Shabbat; flying with George for an hour over St. Alias Mountains; driving with Johnny on the four-hour McCarthy road; Shabbat in Maui. These were opportunities for emersion, revealing and educating conversations.    

The last morning in Hawaii, I stayed up most of the night watching the super blue moon and then the sunrise in the land of the rising sun. My back was stressed, I had blisters on my feet, but I experienced a healed soul. Seeing the vastness of the land, enlarges the spirit.

I love this country — its geography, its history, and its promise of new frontiers.

May this year expand our frontiers, 

—Rabbi Gadi Capela